Sunday, October 25, 2015

Life is for the living

Staring from the banks of a glassy, slow-moving Loire River to the splendid sunset across the horizon.

It is so spectacularly beautiful, all I can do is sigh and breathe.

Breathe.

And try to draw it in ink on lined, white paper canvas.

An eight-columned arch bridge divides the scene, separating right bank from left.

Dividing the two halves of the bridge is a small island with fall foliage amidst its autumn change. October orange, green and a hint of yellow.

On the left bank, the sun sets golden across the grey-pink clouded sky.  Golden rays streak through grey like lines of streaking light.  

Below the arches it has gone all golden unto the dark forest horizon.

Reflected gold light shimmers with the stone columns in the cold glass waters.

Cars streak across the long bridge.

The right bank below the weathered stone arches is dark with forest.

Above the fold, autumn colors reign supreme,
while white birds dot the water and sand and river glass.

Overhead in a sea of grey-pink, formations of birds pass in v lines.

I take a deep breath.

Perhaps Whitman could have given it more form.

Or Thoreau, more color and depth.

Monet would have abstracted the scene in a light watercolor tint.

Van Gogh would have taken fat yellow paint to the resplendent sky-set.

Perhaps it is scene more fit for a Romantic painter-- left to the brush of Bierstadt or Turner or Cole.

Perhaps best left described by an impressionist.

As the bells punctuate the quiet night across the city of Tours, the Muse closes her handiwork--and she ends my memory with a punctuation of finality, I leave the memory I have: all I can give is what I have given.

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